90s Vignettes
Maurice Key & Mike Cao.
Courtesy of curb cuttings.
Courtesy of curb cuttings.
Needing a break from Los Angeles, we headed
north to San Francisco for a few days. Dreams
of Embarcadero plaza as it was portrayed in the
videos, full of the top pros blowing minds as
they wrote skating's history book would surely
be awaiting us...
north to San Francisco for a few days. Dreams
of Embarcadero plaza as it was portrayed in the
videos, full of the top pros blowing minds as
they wrote skating's history book would surely
be awaiting us...
THE DOLLAR INN.
By Darren Howman.
Arriving into San Francisco, the EMB dream was true but by far the most intimidating scene we’d ever seen. A sea of skaters, criss crossing the bricks and boards flying everywhere. At the sidelines and like packs of hungry wolves, locals jeered at anyone that looked out of place. Out of nowhere and parting the sea of carnage, Eric Pupecki boosts a huge kickflip down the three, punts across the bricks and ploughs a long and loud crooked grind on the lower block of the ‘big 3’. We watch for a while but the intimidation is all too much for us and decide to return later. Arriving back early evening, it seemed we’d made the right choice. A small handful of skaters congregate on the C block as Mike ‘Wing Ding’ Cao screeches a full speed backside lip slide on one of its sides.
But then, no sooner have we stepped into the plaza, the group of skaters all start to run when a cop car arrives.
With no choice we sprint after them with the cops in tow and leap over the wave wall that leads to the ‘Gonz gap’. On the other side, another cop car awaits us resulting in expensive trespass tickets.
Our threadbare budget definitely won’t stretch for a hotel room in the city now.
With egos bruised, we head across the bay to a cheaper area called Oakland and like a beacon of salvation, a blinking neon light spelling out the words ‘The Dollar Inn’ beckons us into its parking lot.
Thirty bucks is passed through the slit in the screen of the stand alone booth as we drive in. No ID required. A hand pushes a set of keys back through with the number 29 on the tag. Parking our old Honda civic, I’m glad it’s of no value. The place feels fucking dodgy. People lurk in the doorways while others shout across the lot from opposing balconies. I can feel eyes following us as the car is locked and we scurry up to the room.
The ‘2’ is missing and the ‘9’, still attached to the door reads ‘6’ as it hangs upside down by one screw. The door jams halfway open on entry. Inside, a dim bulb hangs limply from the ceiling. The beds sag in their middles and patches of carpet are worn back to the concrete. We close the curtains, turn the TV up and make a unanimous decision to wait until morning to go in search for food. And then, voices draw closer along the balcony. The group bang on every door they pass. In a flash, a chair is wedged against the door handle and the light killed. Terrified and cowering under the window in the dark room, I’m starting to think an expensive city hotel wasn’t a bad idea after all. The group outside bang and peer through the glass.
And then silence. But not for long, when a screech of tyres and burst of gunshots ring out. Through the ripped curtains we can see two groups sat on their car roofs below. They randomly fire shots into the air and shout at each other. We’re trapped in this place of terrifying uncertainty, unsure of whats to come.
The chaos continues through the night while we stay on high alert, unable to sleep and the moment silence falls, we make a break for it. The Honda is still intact and our escape is swift. By 6am we’re unwrapping McMuffins back across the bay in San Francisco.
But then, no sooner have we stepped into the plaza, the group of skaters all start to run when a cop car arrives.
With no choice we sprint after them with the cops in tow and leap over the wave wall that leads to the ‘Gonz gap’. On the other side, another cop car awaits us resulting in expensive trespass tickets.
Our threadbare budget definitely won’t stretch for a hotel room in the city now.
With egos bruised, we head across the bay to a cheaper area called Oakland and like a beacon of salvation, a blinking neon light spelling out the words ‘The Dollar Inn’ beckons us into its parking lot.
Thirty bucks is passed through the slit in the screen of the stand alone booth as we drive in. No ID required. A hand pushes a set of keys back through with the number 29 on the tag. Parking our old Honda civic, I’m glad it’s of no value. The place feels fucking dodgy. People lurk in the doorways while others shout across the lot from opposing balconies. I can feel eyes following us as the car is locked and we scurry up to the room.
The ‘2’ is missing and the ‘9’, still attached to the door reads ‘6’ as it hangs upside down by one screw. The door jams halfway open on entry. Inside, a dim bulb hangs limply from the ceiling. The beds sag in their middles and patches of carpet are worn back to the concrete. We close the curtains, turn the TV up and make a unanimous decision to wait until morning to go in search for food. And then, voices draw closer along the balcony. The group bang on every door they pass. In a flash, a chair is wedged against the door handle and the light killed. Terrified and cowering under the window in the dark room, I’m starting to think an expensive city hotel wasn’t a bad idea after all. The group outside bang and peer through the glass.
And then silence. But not for long, when a screech of tyres and burst of gunshots ring out. Through the ripped curtains we can see two groups sat on their car roofs below. They randomly fire shots into the air and shout at each other. We’re trapped in this place of terrifying uncertainty, unsure of whats to come.
The chaos continues through the night while we stay on high alert, unable to sleep and the moment silence falls, we make a break for it. The Honda is still intact and our escape is swift. By 6am we’re unwrapping McMuffins back across the bay in San Francisco.
Salvaged hi-8 footage of a sleepy skate at Ft. Miley and the Bay blocks with some bonus overly excited yelling from the Honda Civic at James Kelch and co.
After a sleep deprived skate at Fort Miley, we spend most of the day lazing on it’s grassy knolls before trying our luck again that night at EMB. Our hearts sink seeing the plaza empty and no sooner than stepping on to the plaza, two different police officers appear and begin to write us tickets before our boards touch the bricks. Luckily, drawing the ‘naive foreigner card’ works but the prospect of another restless night in the tiny Honda looms.. or worse.
As we leave, a few skaters congregate in a bus stop across the street where a young short dreaded Black guy introduces himself as Pat. We recognise him from videos. It’s Pat Washington.
“Yo, if you pay for some groceries, you guys can stay at the pad.” he casually flicks a stationary nollie heel flip in a pair of Saucony running shoes.
As we leave, a few skaters congregate in a bus stop across the street where a young short dreaded Black guy introduces himself as Pat. We recognise him from videos. It’s Pat Washington.
“Yo, if you pay for some groceries, you guys can stay at the pad.” he casually flicks a stationary nollie heel flip in a pair of Saucony running shoes.
Stevie Williams & Pat Washington.
Courtesy of Curb cuttings.
Courtesy of Curb cuttings.
Without hesitation, we bundle him in the Civic and follow his directions to a supermarket where we make good on his offer before heading to his place. Climbing the ten flights of stairs with our sleeping bags and the groceries, we enter a scene from Larry Clark’s ‘KIDS’ movie. Twenty odd skaters co- habit the smoky studio apartment space. Some sit on stacks of decks rolling blunts while others jostle in sleeping bags for space on the floor. We can’t believe what we’ve walked into.
The room is full of an all star cast of heroes talking among themselves while an RBL posse soundtrack plays from a boombox in the corner. Maurice Key hustles several pairs of some crazy looking camel toed Salman Agah Vans shoes while telling Stevie Williams about some beef that may get him the boot from World Industries. Nick Lockman and Rodney Torres appear from the kitchen with bowls of ‘Top Ramen’ before heading off to skate the city. I feel grateful to be here among this FTC video roster, more so of Pat’s hospitality. We wriggle into our sleeping bags and find a space on the crowded carpet with the other twenty residents. My eyes are heavy from lack of sleep. My mind passively high from the weed smoke that hangs in the air. I drift off, still buzzing about the greats we are surrounded by but more so, just happy to not be sleeping upright in the car or worse, at The Dollar Inn. And then, seconds later my drift into slumber ends when we’re jolted awake by gunshots below on the street. A few guys rush to the window still in their bags, hopping between the rest of us on the floor as if we are old tyres on a military assault course. The street below falls silent and failing to see anything, they hop across us and back into their spots on the floor.
We leave the sea of snoring sleeping bags early and step into a brisk morning fog. Then the gunshots of last night become clear. Next to our trusty old midnight blue Honda Civic flaps a yellow ribbon of police tape above a bloodstained sidewalk and the smudged chalk outline of a homicide victim.
The room is full of an all star cast of heroes talking among themselves while an RBL posse soundtrack plays from a boombox in the corner. Maurice Key hustles several pairs of some crazy looking camel toed Salman Agah Vans shoes while telling Stevie Williams about some beef that may get him the boot from World Industries. Nick Lockman and Rodney Torres appear from the kitchen with bowls of ‘Top Ramen’ before heading off to skate the city. I feel grateful to be here among this FTC video roster, more so of Pat’s hospitality. We wriggle into our sleeping bags and find a space on the crowded carpet with the other twenty residents. My eyes are heavy from lack of sleep. My mind passively high from the weed smoke that hangs in the air. I drift off, still buzzing about the greats we are surrounded by but more so, just happy to not be sleeping upright in the car or worse, at The Dollar Inn. And then, seconds later my drift into slumber ends when we’re jolted awake by gunshots below on the street. A few guys rush to the window still in their bags, hopping between the rest of us on the floor as if we are old tyres on a military assault course. The street below falls silent and failing to see anything, they hop across us and back into their spots on the floor.
We leave the sea of snoring sleeping bags early and step into a brisk morning fog. Then the gunshots of last night become clear. Next to our trusty old midnight blue Honda Civic flaps a yellow ribbon of police tape above a bloodstained sidewalk and the smudged chalk outline of a homicide victim.
'Lesser seen Pat, Stevie and Maurice in mid 90's San Francisco.
Footage: @Chef_BradJohnson
Footage: @Chef_BradJohnson
Darren will be releasing more vignettes through various publications, to find out when and where, visit him on instagram via @daz_dot_com